


A Small Mercy

by Zebra (DQueenie13)



Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: End-of-life, Gen, Headcanon for Gahmuret, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:01:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26606416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DQueenie13/pseuds/Zebra
Summary: If there was a small mercy in his mother’s brutal, untimely death, it was that her pain and suffering wasn’t prolonged. As Gahmuret lays on his deathbed, Aglovale reflects on past, present, and future.
Kudos: 8





	A Small Mercy

**Author's Note:**

> This fic isn't exactly a dedication to my late mother, who passed away in May, but it was inspired by my experience of caring for her in the last few months of her life.

If there was a small mercy in his mother’s brutal, untimely death, it was that her pain and suffering wasn’t prolonged. Aglovale gazed at his father, laying in his deathbed. It had been three months since Gahmuret’s sudden decline in health, and it was evident even to commoners who never saw him in person that his time was up.

Aglovale had never been close to the patriarch—in the House of Wales, child-rearing was a job left to women and the men dealt little with their children besides passing down the skills needed to be a ruler. Truth be told, Aglovale couldn’t scrounge up even a single fond memory he had with his father; even when Gahmuret dropped his aloof “ruler” persona, he only ever dropped it for Herzeloyde, not for his children.

Still, Aglovale felt pity and a tinge of sorrow at his father’s sad state. Gahmuret took shallow, raspy breaths, and while his eyes were open, they were glazed and unfocused; part of Aglovale wondered if he could even see. The bedsheets hid how thin and gaunt his body was, but it was easy to infer based on his sunken cheeks and protruding collarbones. The nightshirt he wore was actually one Aglovale wore when he was in his early teens; it was the only thing they had on hand that wasn’t too baggy for Gahmuret’s frame while being easy enough for the servants to change him in and out of.

A week had passed since he became bedridden and unable to control his own bodily functions; attendants were constantly on standby to clean him off and change the bedding when the need arose. Without the ability to communicate with him, everyone was left guessing how to care for him. At one point, Aglovale walked in on weary servants muttering among themselves that they wished the lord would just die already. Of course, they immediately clammed up the moment they realized Aglovale was in their presence, but in all honesty, he sympathized with them.

The transition into the position of Lord of Wales was less than pleasant. Even if he was the first-born and rightful heir, he was still technically a proxy for his father. Many of the men in his father’s council took advantage of that to stall his proposals and ignore his decrees, even if they were left to him by his father. Of course, the moment father died, those same people would try to butter him up and pretend that they were faithful servants this whole time.

There was also the matter of his brothers. Lamorak flew the coop years ago, heading off wherever the wind took him. Throwing darts at a map of Phantagrande while blindfolded would probably be as accurate as any attempt to track him down. Percival was much easier to find, having traveled to a neighboring country to join its knight order as per family tradition. However, that country happened to be Feendrache, whom their father long resented, so Aglovale was sure he would have had few kind words to direct at Percival even if he returned. In the end, Aglovale only wrote one letter to Percival at the onset of Gahmuret’s ill health, closing off the letter with orders to stay put in Feendrache until further notice.

That “further notice” was sent out two days ago. Aglovale had no idea whether Gahmuret would last long enough for Percival to witness his final moments, or how long it would take for Gahmuret to finally move on—every new day in the past three months came with a new low for him to reach. On several nights, Aglovale found himself praying Gahmuret would stop clinging to life and be freed of his misery.

As Aglovale flipped through the pages of a thick book in his hand—the kingdom’s rules on proper funeral decorum for royalty and the heir’s coronation and succession—a part of him wondered if _he_ was the one who wanted to be freed of his misery. Looking at the rules on funeral dress (yes, he was expected to have a custom-tailored outfit), there were so many useless frivolities to account for: the exact shade of black for the fabric, the appropriate thickness of the fabric for the season, the details in the hems (and they weren’t meant to be seen!), the proper length of his sleeves and trousers… He couldn’t help but wonder if this was written by a conniving tailor hoping to squeeze money out of the royal coffers.

Growing weary of thinking about _appearances_ , Aglovale set the book down on the table. As he did, his fingers brushed against the key to his father’s study. He picked up the piece of metal, running his fingers over the intricate carvings on the head. Sensing a strange magic faintly pulsing from it, he frowned.

Several months after his mother’s passing, Gahmuret picked up some arcane studies, ones supposedly passed down by his ancestors. He refused to answer questions about what exactly he did, despite spending most of his time secluded in his study. Soon, he was neglecting his duties to his country—the task of managing Wales’ affairs thus unofficially fell on Aglovale’s shoulders. As people’s faith in Gahmuret naturally fell in favor of him, his father’s jealousy towards him intensified as he shut himself off even more.

“Milord!” At the attendant’s alarmed voice, Aglovale dropped the key. He knew what to expect even before he turned around. “Your father is…”

Gahmuret’s face was yellowed and waxy, his lips devoid of color as his eyes remained fixed on the ceiling. Despite already knowing his answer, Aglovale checked for any sign of life that may remain. After several seconds, he shook his head. “Send for the doctor and priest. Percival should be arriving shortly; I will greet him.”

She bowed. “Yes, Your Hi—No. Your Majesty.”

As she left the room, Aglovale’s lips twisted upwards into a smirk. Making this expression right after his father’s passing was wrong, but finally— _finally—_ he could sit on the throne as himself, not his father’s proxy. Finally, the ministers could no longer snub him without fear of retaliation.

Finally, he could do what he’d always wanted to do: unite the island under his rule and put an end to its ceaseless power struggles.


End file.
